


Your Song

by dramatricks



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatricks/pseuds/dramatricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few things in your life up to this point that you regret, but seeing her on stage in her cowboy boots and skin tight jeans, moving effortlessly as April Rhodes sang about getting drunk? You highly regretted missing that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Song

**Author's Note:**

> More Faberry smut. Originally posted at my Livejournal.

“So… we doing this singing lesson or not, Berry?”

You roll your eyes at her from your position on the bed, but really, you’re in no mood to argue (and even if you were, you wouldn’t – for once), because she’s sauntering towards you and her eyes are fastened on your face, even as her hands are toying with the buttons on the front of her shirt.

There are few things in your life up to this point that you regret, but seeing her on stage in her cowboy boots and skin tight jeans, moving effortlessly as April Rhodes sang about getting drunk? You highly regretted missing that.

But, you think, as the first two buttons pop open and her collarbone comes into view, perhaps a private performance ( _lesson_ ) is better.

There’s no music in the room but her hips are swaying as she watches you and you watch her, and you push yourself up on one elbow so you can see her more fully.  You’d sit up but even though you’re naked you’re wearing _something_ and your nervousness about _it_ keeps you in your current position.

And really, god bless whoever invented jeans because they hug your girlfriend’s hips in the most delicious of ways as she moves, completely aware of your eyes on her. Her cheeks flush pink as she slowly, so slowly, _too slowly_ unfastens more buttons on her shirt and the soft swell of her breasts begin to peek through the fabric.

She smiles uncertainly at you and you smile back, the word leaving your lips and sounding like a simple note of music in the silent room.

“Adagio.”

_A tempo having slow movement; restful, at ease._

Every move that your girlfriend has ever made in her life (barring one or two unfortunate decisions involving a certain mohawked football player, of course) is slow, calculated… some might even say the Cheerio makes things look easy. She’s dancing now, just for you, her hips circling wider and more tempting, and though your lower lip is tucked firmly between your teeth and you know your eyes have reached that dark hue that tells her you’re _wet_ for _her_ … you know it’s been a little less than easy.

You think that perhaps you’re the only one who knows that the casual two-step she dances through the halls of William McKinley High School – and her life – is a carefully mapped plan of attack.  It’s pure defense, born of too much hurt and too little security. A wall built of crimson, white, and black, crowds once again parting like the red sea as she walks past.

But too, you know, this adagio, this slow, easy way she makes towards the bed, more and more buttons coming undone until you can see the black lace of her bra, see the pale whiteness of her hands against the black shirt as she tugs it out of the waistband of her pants and slips it off her shoulders… this is when all those defenses come down.

Because Quinn Fabray is at peace… with you.

Her body is fluid; she’s still dancing to a song all her own and you’re content just to observe as her hands trail up her stomach, over her sides, and around to her back, deftly unsnapping her bra and drawing it off.  Her nails are painted Cheerios red, bright as blood against pale skin; and your mouth aches to lick the path her fingers take: she is _your_ map, and you know it well.

You know the small patch of freckles just above her right breast, the way she trembles when you press your lips to it. You know the most sensitive part of her (beyond the usual) is her bellybutton, and you love nothing more than to feel the way she arches beneath you as you swirl your tongue around it, teasing her almost to the point of no mercy.  You know that her favorite thing is to feel the scratch of a uniform being pulled from her skin as you join her in the locker room to take advantage of your free period.

You’re biting your lip hard enough to draw blood now, and you can’t help but whimper because she’s cupped her breasts in her hands, moving fingertips over her nipples and soon they’ve changed from their dusky pink to a deeper shade as they stiffen.  She smirks at the sound and you just shake your head, because even though this is for you, you both know that she can never resist being able to call some of the shots.

She slinks and sways a waltz to the side of the bed, close enough for you to reach out and touch her, and you do, but only to hook your fingers into that belt and undo it; a simple gesture of contact that’s over all too soon when she pulls away from you with a wink. The sound of the zipper of those _jeans_ is like a hymn in the room: a celebration of the softness, the gentle roundness of skin that fits perfectly in your hands in moments like this, just before you learn to sing together.

You’ve given up on telling yourself that it’s nothing more than study, or lessons, two people coming together for platonic tutoring or dreaming up a routine for glee.  There’s a certain amount of glee in this, all right, but never anything that Schuester can ever know about. (Or would ever want to, you’re pretty sure.)

She turns away from you and you growl low in your throat when she bends over to tug the jeans from her ankles, folding them up in her maddening need to keep everything neat – and teasing.  She straightens up but only to wiggle her hips a little as those black lace panties take the same route that her jeans did, and soon all of her clothes are resting in a neat, tempting pile on your desk – right on top of the sheet music you’re supposed to be studying.

She turns back to you then, the flush on her cheeks darker, and she reaches up to pull the cowboy hat off her honey blonde curls, but she stops when you shake your head vigorously.

“Leave it on,” you murmur, your voice husky and thick with want.

She smiles softly before maneuvering herself onto the bed, onto _you_ , straddling you just above _it_ , and you’re growing wetter because you can feel _her_ wetness pooling onto your stomach. You can’t help but moan because she rubs against you as she shifts to lean down, her face inches from yours.  Then everything else in the room diminishes and it’s just you and Quinn and that brilliant hazel with flecks of gold.

She never takes her eyes off you as she whispers it.  “I love you, Rachel.”

It’s taken you both a while to get to this point, a year of slow-dancing around the feelings, her (supposed) hatred morphing into something even more passionate and, well, better.  You’ve always said that the opposite of hate isn’t love, it’s indifference; so it was really no surprise to anyone but Quinn the day you were supposed to be studying for a Spanish test in your room, and instead the two of you ended up lying flush on your bed, kissing as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And once Quinn had gotten over her repressed ignore-you-for-two-whole-weeks-afterward stage… it was.

So you whisper it back and nature once again takes over as Quinn kisses you; you sigh and your hands come to rest against her hips, fingertips barely smoothing over taut muscles.

“Warm up,” you breathe, and smirk a little as Quinn shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

_Warming up the body with stretches to relieve tension and help wake the senses, with special emphasis on the jaw, tongue, and lips._

Your body stretches languidly underneath her as she concentrates on you, every sense ticking awake and fully alive.  Though your eyes are hooded you can see the pulse in her neck, the almost wanton sparkle in her eyes as she kisses you. She’d taken a shower before coming to see you in that _wonderful_ outfit, and the scent of peach rolls off her in waves.  You concentrate on the sound of your mouths moving together in harmony, tongues tracing together like a melody on a page.   She tastes like spearmint and vanilla, a coolness that intoxicates you.  You can feel her muscles flexing beneath your fingers, and you realize that she’s ever-so-lightly grinding against your stomach as your kisses deepen.

Quinn stretches forward, smooth and calculated like a cat, until her forearms are resting on either side of your head.  The room goes a little dark, obscured by the cowboy hat still perched (precariously, now) on her head and her long blonde hair a curtain for both of you.  For a minute, all she does is breathe against your mouth, and you long to tip yourself up, to press your lips against the cute little dimple on her chin, but as you move your hands from her hips she shakes her head, a peculiar glint in her eyes.  The heat rushes to your center as she grabs your hands in hers and pins one of them over your head.

You groan as she takes the other one and slips it between her legs.

Then _she_ moans as your fingers find her clit, stroking slowly and easily over the hard bundle of nerves.

“Think I’m ready?” she breathes, and you catch the note of fear and uncertainty in her voice.

You’d make a remark about how wet she is, how ready she _feels_ , but her grip has slackened around your left wrist and you disentangle it from her hand to bring your fingers up and cup her cheek.  Two of your other fingers slide into her effortlessly and you smile as she slumps against you with a grunt.

“I think you are,” you say quietly, “but you know we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

She just smiles, moving against your fingers as she dips her head low to kiss you again, moving along your jaw, licking the shell of your ear before trailing down your neck and further to capture one of your nipples in between her teeth, tugging at it lightly.  She suckles it until you pull out of her and she whines, but you smile and draw your hand further underneath her, and her breath catches when she feels the cool silicone brush against her.

You slide your hand along the length of it, coating it, even as your eyes stay fastened on Quinn’s.  You know both of you are nervous; you know one of you is going to have to take the lead at this point, and the way Quinn is worrying her lower lip between her teeth, you’re pretty sure it’s going to be you.  You circle your hand around the base and your eyes catch Quinn’s again; she takes a deep breath and gives you an almost imperceptible nod.

Duet.

_A composition written for two._

She lifts herself up onto her knees, and you have the sudden thought that Quinn Fabray has never been more beautiful as she positions herself and moves down, down, until she’s filled, her body is melded with yours, and she throws her head back a little as she whispers “Oh, god…”

She’s trembling and you steady her with your hands on her waist, knowing you look concerned staring up at her; she can’t see you because her eyes are half-closed and you want to make sure she’s adjusted, that she’s okay and not hurting. But then her eyes fly open and she gives you that beaming smile you know well, and it tells you that everything is just fine, even before she rests her hands on your shoulders and begins to ride you.

It’s the perfect position, you think, and you’re _really_ glad the two of you decided to make _that_ purchase, because you can _see_ her; it’s almost like being up-close to a statue of a Greek goddess and you’re content to lie still and let Quinn take the lead in this duet so that you can just… watch. It’s as if you’re seeing her for the very first time, as if you’ve never laid eyes on Quinn before, and you can’t help but drink her in: the way the muscles in her arms strain and snap with each thrust; the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath of air she takes in.  Her hair underneath the cowboy hat is sweaty and matted in curly tendrils over her forehead; her eyes are closed and those lashes, those long lashes that you’ve always envied flutter like the wings of a butterfly on her cheeks. She’s starting to moan, now, little notes here and there that only you get to hear, and, you think, there’s never been a sweeter piece of music.

“More,” she whispers suddenly, and you tilt your head at her.

“More, baby?”

She nods, and her face is an adorable shade of beet-red as she opens her eyes and stares down at you.

“Deeper, Rach…”

You nod and she moves so that once again her forearms are next to your head and she’s lying fully against you; you let her take control of her thrusts and she moans even louder, telling you that she’s managed to hit _that spot._  You can feel her hips moving against yours, can feel the base of the strap-on pushing against your clit.

Her face is tucked in your neck and she’s sucking at your pulse point; you arch your neck to grant her more access and soon your arms snake around her waist and your fingers are tracing lazy patterns along the length of her bare back.

Ligature.

_A curved line connecting notes to be sung or played as a phrase_.

Slowly, gently, you scratch your fingernails along her spine, caressing the curve and the strong vertebrae you find there. You’ve always loved her back.  You’re pretty sure that Quinn has never realized just how much you watch her: in school, as she marches down the hall with her back stiff and straight, with a power that has always amazed you.  You’ve marveled at it, how she has the ability to crush anyone with simply a look, and it hasn’t escaped either one of you that it was _you_ she used to crush, with simply a glance of her hard hazel eyes.

But then, things changed.  You watched her back become bowed under the pressure of pregnancy and lies, watched as her shoulders slumped with the weight of losing three homes in less than a year.  Mercedes told you how she had looked giving birth: all sweat and hair plastered over her face and her back bent up as she struggled to bring her baby to a new life, the life she couldn’t give her.  And then, when you’d had the courage to visit her in the hospital afterwards, you saw how she had stiffened upon seeing you, but then relaxed as you gently placed a hand upon her back.

It was that simple gesture that had carried over into your relationship now.  You both played a role in school; even employing Finn and Puck to help the two of you keep up the charade.  But in those quiet moments in the locker room during your free period, when you locked the door behind you and turned to see Quinn stiff and unyielding under the new pressure borne of trying to _protect you_ , you’d cross the floor and move your hand to simply trail your fingertips down her spine.  Instantly she’d relax, instantly she’d smile as she bent to wrap her arms around you and tuck her head on your shoulder, and suddenly she wasn’t Quinn Fabray, head cheerleader.

She was Quinn Fabray, girlfriend and lover of Rachel Berry.

She was yours.

She’s thrusting faster against you now, the base of the strap-on caressing you even more, and you don’t even try to fight the moans that you’re making, mingling them with hers.

Accompanist.

_Someone who plays music beneath the singing_.

It _is_ just like singing, you think, these gasps and whimpers that you both are making as Quinn rolls her hips against you. Your hands have slid down her back to cup her ass, and now you don’t really care who takes control as you push against her and move your own hips up and you smirk, thinking it’s a good thing your dads aren’t home because that only makes her louder.

“God, baby,” she mutters into your ear, “God that feels so good…”

But you don’t want her to just feel good, you want her to feel amazing, so you remove one hand only to slip it back in between the two of you; it’s an uncomfortable fit with the way she’s grinding down hard against the strap-on, but it’s all worth it when she jerks against you with a sudden yelp as you tweak her clit between your thumb and index finger.

“Fuck,” she hisses, and you tuck that away to tease her about later. 

“Baby, yes…”

Your fingers slide effortlessly over her clit; you play her as easily as you would a piano, delighting in the notes she is singing above you.

You can feel her wetness on you and you know that she can probably feel you on _her_ ; that only serves to heighten your need to feel her, to see her, to _watch_ her.

Espressivo.

_A direction to sing expressively._

She’s leaning over you so that you’re able to capture one of her nipples in your mouth, sucking it roughly as your left hand moves from her ass to cup her other breast in your hand, kneading the nipple to hardness.  Quinn’s face is scrunched tight, breath coming rapid and hard as she groans, and you think, no, maybe _this_ is when Quinn Fabray is the most beautiful, when she’s kneeling on top of you and thrusting down on a strap-on that _you’re_ wearing, and suddenly she reaches up, fingers closing around the brim of her hat and holding on for a few seconds as she rides you, before she tears that cowboy hat off her head, tossing it across the room and letting her curls cascade down over her shoulders.  The sunlight filtering in through your window catches the golden strands just so and you can’t help but gasp; the sound startles her and she almost slows down but you shake your head.

“You’re _beautiful_ ,” you breathe.  “Don’t you dare stop…”

You can feel yourself tightening and you know she’s getting close as well, so you forget about your own need and thrust up quickly, listening as she lets out a guttural whimper and you swell with pride because she is _yours_ , and you’re the one making her feel this way.  This is the only time Quinn Fabray truly lets go, when all of her defenses come down and she is truly _naked_ , physically and emotionally, and to you, it’s the most amazing thing in the world.  More than once the very thought of it has made tears spring to your eyes.

“Allegro.”

_A direction to play lively or fast_.

Her eyes brighten and she’s biting down on her lower lip so hard you’re afraid she’s going to draw blood, but coherent thought flies out the window because Quinn has planted her hands flat on either side of your head; you’re bucking up and she’s grinding down to take the strap-on deeper.  Neither one of you are giving a damn about being quiet now, because your dads will be out until well into the morning hours and you can hear the slick, wet sounds of Quinn’s need beyond the moans both of you are making into the heat of your bedroom.

“Rachel, Rachel,” Quinn is whimpering; she presses her forehead to yours and you can feel the sweat trickling down her forehead, can taste the salt of it on your lips as you work your fingers faster over her clit.  The motion of her hips is smooth, quick, calculated even as her breathing is erratic and the notes that are sounding over and over from her mouth are higher and staccato, because you know she’s reaching that point, the highest point in the song the two of you are singing together.

Finale.

_Movement that concludes the musical composition._

You twist your fingers just so and pinch her clit, _hard_ , as you thrust into her in one fluid motion.

“Rachel,” she gasps again, and you can almost hear her spine snap as she goes rigid.  “Rachel, I’m… god…”

The sudden jerk of her body against you presses the base of the strap-on into you and your own need, that has been building all this time, suddenly releases in unison with Quinn; the sound of her name overlaps with the sound of _yours_ as you lift yourself into her as hard as you can and she pulses downward until she keens and her muscles turn to jelly.  You’re just barely coming down out of your own orgasm before Quinn collapses onto you, head buried against your shoulder and giving you a mouthful of blonde hair.

You manage to roll your eyes and weakly lift one hand to brush it out of the way before you rest your fingers on her back, stroking gently.  She breathes hard against you until she… well, until she doesn’t, and she’s so quiet and motionless that you’re a little afraid you’ve broken her, so you poke her gently until you’re rewarded with a giggle, and a lazy grin spreads across your face.

She tips her head up, eyes still wide and dilated, and she presses her lips tenderly against yours before settling back down with her head on your chest and you know it won’t be long before she’s fast asleep.

“Quinn,” you say softly, “let me…”

She rolls her lower half off of you just enough so that you can shimmy out of the harness, dropping it onto the end of the bed. You don’t even care about the cleaning regimen you’d worked out before you’d bought the thing, because Quinn has crawled back on top of you and worked the covers up around you both.  Your other hand is numb by the time you pull it out from underneath her and you flex your fingers a few times to start the circulation going; Quinn opens her eyes at the motion and just grins at you.

“We should do this again some time,” she mutters drowsily, and you kiss her forehead.

“This?” you tease.  “You mean singing lessons?”

She nods before her heavy, even breathing tells you of sleep, and you tighten your arms around her and close your eyes.

You’re inclined to agree, of course, as you feel sleep beginning to overtake you.

After all, you’re the singer, and you could always benefit from more lessons.

Especially when you know that Quinn Fabray will always be your song.


End file.
